


Blind Men's Bluffs

by Trovia



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Canon Related, Community: bsg_remix, Ensemble Cast, Episode: s01e11 Colonial Day, F/M, Fluff, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:03:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Colonial Day, and everybody tries to be somebody new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Men's Bluffs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [First Bluff](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3460) by kag523. 



> Thanks to Rose_Griffes for the beta.

Starbuck is applying makeup, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. She frowns, reaching for mascara, paid for by a slightly dog-eared skin mag she'd been saving for a special occasion. There's a smear of lipstick in the corner of her mouth where it doesn't belong and she's not sure how to make it go away. She's better at maintaining a Viper.

Laughter drifts into the room faintly, celebration loud enough to penetrate the hatch. People are happy. Billions are already dead, and the rest of them are dying, Cylons fast on their heels. Yet it's Colonial Day, and they are set on creating some joy. They can fool themselves into thinking they are someone else tonight – not refugees, no fleet of walking dead, but people, with hope.

Starbuck has remembered how to correctly apply the lipstick, red-smeared tissue crumpled at her feet. She's busy trying to be someone new as well, though unlike other people, she is making it a dare. _“You've got hygiene?”_ he'd quipped.

She's trying to be Kara Thrace.

(Ellen Tigh tried to be someone of importance today, smiling into cameras too brightly while reminding herself that this is really all she ever wanted. Lt. Gaeta is trying to have a private life currently; he's muttering “frak it” to himself, closing his tech manual with a disgusted look to go and find the party. A man called Valance tried to be a murderer this day. He's dead now, and someone, somewhere tries to wash his blood off their sleeve in a bathroom smelling of vomit. It doesn't work, it never does.

Meanwhile, Tom Zarek is trying to be a politician. Tom Zarek has always tried to be a politician.)

* * *

Starbuck feels as much as hears Apollo walking up to her.

And there it is: The triumph of victory swelling in her chest as she sees him standing in the crowd, eyes wide and – just for a second – painfully reminiscent of that one other time, the one she never thinks about except apparently tonight. She chooses to focus on the triumph.

“So,” he manages and clears his voice, “that bum knee of yours is looking pretty good. And the other one's not looking too bad either.”

Makeup cannot cover the dark circles under her eyes. The slim-fitting blue number skimming her curves cannot hide that she could knock out a Marine with those arms. Double shifts and engine grease and knowing you're already dead cannot be made away. But Apollo's eyes are glued to the parts of her body that aren't made to fight, even when he quirks his eyebrow and extends his arm to draw her onto the dance floor. And that would be enough, except-

 _“I clean up good sometimes, alright?”_

It's still all a dare, is the thing. It's _Starbuck_ who took it in the first place, is the problem.

(Saul is following his wife down to the Raptor bay, feeling twenty again. A luxury suite aboard the Rising Star is waiting for them, reporters already lying in wait. He's never wanted to be someone special, never wanted to be famous. But he can be for Ellen, just for one night.)

* * *

It's an hour later when they are interrupted. Patting Apollo's shoulder, Baltar looks at the pilot expectantly until Lee lets go and steps back.

The tingling in her stomach recedes, taking that rouged version of her away – that tentative attempt at being someone else and someone real retreating with a tangible snap. Starbuck smirks at the Vice President and rolls her shoulder, muscle play reminding him to keep his hands up north. Lee is long gone from the room like she never dressed up and she doesn't think of that. She doesn't.

* * *

Back home on Caprica, an Eight is frozen on a ledge while Helo stares at her, stares at her copy turning a corner below them, stares back at her. Open terror in in the eyes of them both: She's not Sharon Valerii. She's never been Sharon Valerii. She can never be.

But a half-human baby is growing inside her, and maybe she can be whatever the frak she wants. The gun is in her hand somehow, the sound of gun fire exploding and she's shooting two times, three times, and the Eight she isn't anymore is bleeding out on gray concrete.

At this time and place at least, the world snaps, recreating itself.

(Just imagine. She's chased Baltar away with a threat to break his fingers. For a few seconds, Kara can't move, feeling – being – out of place. The laughter and motions of the crowd grip her like a vise. Where's Apollo? She dressed up for him, for frak's sake – embarrassment is turning into fury.

Seconds pass and she is off the dance floor, searching hallways with the systematic eye of a soldier. It's not Starbuck that's running down the C-level corridor, though. She isn't running _away_.)

* * *

Baltar is pleased with himself. The formidable Starbuck is dancing with him, gradually relaxing into her more familiar brash self. He wonders where she found the dress and – more importantly – what she is wearing underneath. Underwear supplies are short, after all. Playa Palacios might not be the only woman on a budget in the Fleet.

He should be worrying about the sudden political career that has been thrust upon him. It's easier to chase away the Six by focusing on women, though.

Already, Baltar is forgetting that he never felt inclined towards politics, that he shouldn't, in actuality, be a Vice President. He leans forward to whisper a salacious compliment into Starbuck's ear with an accent he rarely remembers is false. She smirks suggestively.

The wisest man in the room this day, he's quite aware that the difference between reality and fraud can be slim. Laughing and dancing all around them in this time of despair, people voted for the man to match their vision.

(“Where the frak did you go!” Kara snaps and doesn't wait for his answer. Her heels are costing her balance but they also add to her height, making her exactly as tall as him. She pushes him back, edging forward until she has him captured between her and a wall. “You left me with Gaius frakking Baltar!”

“Yeah, well.” Apollo is glancing at her with caution. “You seemed like you were having a good enough time...”

“You left me there!” Her eyes are burning into his, yet her next words are a low growl and nothing she meant to say at all. “What a waste of a dress.” Not embarrassment, she tells herself – but fury.

“Not a waste.” He swallows thickly. “You look amazing.”

She frowns, ready to tell him to frak off and to leave him there. But when she glances back up, she can't make up her mind anymore because he's somehow found space left to close between them, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek. Lips on her own, and this is suddenly all she ever wanted. Their lips slanting together, she draws him closer and closer, gasping when his tongue dips into her mouth. One of them moans.

She doesn't feel off balance now.)

* * *

Sharon is dancing like the world has come loose, giggling when Gaeta twirls and twirls and twirls her around. She feels alive. For the first time since the destruction, she feels joyous and alive, like a real human being with dreams and with hope. She longs to always feel like that.

(and somewhere else, she will.)


End file.
